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He’d known her since childhood and had considered her a spoiled brat from the word go. Though she’d often been off for months at a time on one of her parents’ journalistic safaris, they’d seen enough of each other to feed a mutual dislike. Only the fact that she had cared for Jolley had given Michael some tolerance for her. And the fact, he was forced to admit, that she had more honesty and humanity in her than any of their other relations.
There had been a time, he recalled, a brief time, during late adolescence that he’d felt a certain…stirring for her. A purely shallow and physical teenage hunger, Michael assured himself. She’d always had an intriguing face; it could be unrelentingly plain one moment and striking the next, and when she’d hit her teens…well, that had been a natural enough reaction. And it had passed without incident. He now preferred a woman with more subtlety, more gloss and femininity—and shorter fangs.
Whatever he preferred, Michael left the arranging of his own office to wander downstairs.
“Charles, did my shipment come?” Pandora pulled off her leather driving gloves and dropped them on a little round table in the hall. Since Charles was there, the ancient butler who had served her uncle since before she was born, she felt a certain pleasure in coming.
“Everything arrived this morning, miss.” The old man would have taken her suitcase if she hadn’t waved him away.
“No, don’t fuss with that. Where did you have them put everything?”
“In the garden shed in the east yard, as you instructed.”
She gave him a smile and a peck on the cheek, both of which pleased him. His square bulldog’s face grew slightly pink. “I knew I could count on you. I didn’t tell you before how happy I was that you and Sweeney are staying. The place wouldn’t be the same without you serving tea and Sweeney baking cakes.”
Charles managed to pull his back a bit straighter. “We wouldn’t think about going anywhere else, miss. The master would have wanted us to stay.”
But made it possible for them to go, Pandora mused. Leaving each of them three thousand dollars for every year of service. Charles had been with Jolley since the house was built, and Sweeney had come some ten years later. The bequest would have been more than enough for each to retire on. Pandora smiled. Some weren’t made for retirement.
“Charles, I’d love some tea,” she began, knowing if she didn’t distract him, he’d insist on carrying her bags up the long staircase.
“In the drawing room, miss?”
“Perfect. And if Sweeney has any of those little cakes…”
“She’s been baking all morning.” With only the slightest of creaks, he made his way toward the kitchen.
Pandora thought of rich icing loaded with sugar. “I wonder how much weight a person can gain in six months.”
“A steady diet of Sweeney’s cakes wouldn’t hurt you,” Michael said from above her head. “Men are generally more attracted to flesh than bone.”
Pandora spun around, then found herself in the awkward position of having to arch her neck back to see Michael at the top of the stairs. “I don’t center my life around attracting men.”
“I’d be the last one to argue with that.”
He looked quite comfortable, she thought, feeling the first stirrings of resentment. And negligently, arrogantly attractive. From several feet above her head, he leaned against a post and looked down on her as though he was the master. She’d soon put an end to that. Uncle Jolley’s will had been very clear. Share and share alike.
“Since you’re already here and settled in, you can come help me with the rest of my bags.”
He didn’t budge. “I always thought the one point we were in perfect agreement on was feminism.”
Pandora paused at the door to toss a look over her shoulder. “Social and political views aside, if you don’t help me up with them before Charles comes back, he’ll insist on doing it himself. He’s too old to do it and too proud to be told he can’t.” She walked back out and wasn’t surprised when she heard his footsteps on the gravel behind her.
She took a deep breath of crisp autumn air. All in all, it was a lovely day. “Drive up early?”
“Actually, I drove up late last night.”
Pandora turned at the open trunk of her car. “So eager to start the game, Michael?”
If he hadn’t been determined to start off peacefully, he’d have found fault with the tone of her voice, with the look in her eyes. Instead he let it pass. “I wanted to get my office set up today. I was just finishing it when you drove in.”
“Work, work, work,” she said with a long sigh. “You must put in slavish hours to come up with an hour of chase scenes and steam a week.”
Peace wasn’t all that important. As she reached for a suitcase, he closed a hand over her wrist. Later he’d think about how slim it was, how soft. Now he could only think how much he wished she were a man. Then he could’ve belted her. “The amount of work I do and what I produce is of absolutely no concern to you.”
It occurred to Pandora, oddly, she thought, just how much she enjoyed seeing him on the edge of temper. All of her other relatives were so bland, so outwardly civilized. Michael had always been a contrast, and therefore of more interest. Smiling, she allowed her wrist to stay limp.
“Did I indicate that it was? Nothing, I promise you, could be further from the truth. Shall we get these in and have that tea? It’s a bit chilly.”
He’d always admired, grudgingly, how smoothly she could slip into the lady-of-the-manor routine. As a writer who wrote for actors and for viewers, he appreciated natural talent. He also knew how to set a scene to his best advantage. “Tea’s a perfect idea.” He hauled one case out and left the second for her. “We’ll establish some guidelines.”
“Will we?” Pandora pulled out the case, then let the trunk shut quietly. Without another word, she started back toward the house, holding the front door open for him, then breezing by the suitcase she’d left in the main hall. Because she knew Michael was fond of Charles, she hadn’t a doubt he’d pick it up and follow.
The room she always took was on the second floor in the east wing. Jolley had let her decorate it herself, and she’d chosen white on white with a few startling splashes of color. Chartreuse and blazing blue in throw pillows, a long horizontal oil painting, jarring in its colors of sunset, a crimson waist-high urn stuffed with ostrich plumes.
Pandora set her case by the bed, noted with satisfaction that a fire had been laid in the small marble fireplace, then tossed her jacket over a chair.
“I always feel like I’m walking into Better Homes,” he commented as he let her cases drop.
Pandora glanced down at them briefly, then at him. “I’m sure you’re more at home in your own room. It’s more—Field and Stream. I expect tea’s ready.”
He gave her a long, steady survey. Her jacket had concealed the trim cashmere sweater tucked into the narrow waist of her slacks. It reminded Michael quite forcibly just what had begun to attract him all those teenage years ago. For the second time he found himself wishing she were a man.
Though they walked abreast down the stairs, they didn’t speak. In the drawing room, amid the Mideast opulence Jolley had chosen there, Charles was setting up the tea service.
“Oh, you lit the fire. How lovely.” Pandora walked over and began warming her hands. She wanted a moment, just a moment, because for an instant in her room she thought she’d seen something in Michael’s eyes. And she thought she’d felt the same something in response. “I’ll pour, Charles. I’m sure Michael and I won’t need another thing until dinner.”
Casually she glanced around the room, at the flowing drapes, the curvy brocade sofas, the plump pillows and brass urns. “You know, this has always been one of my favorite rooms.” Going to the tea set, she began to fill cups. “I was only twelve when we visited Turkey, but this room always makes me remember it vividly. Right down to the smells in the markets. Sugar?”
“No.” He took the cup from her, plopped a generous slice of cake on a dish, then chose a seat. He preferred the little parlor next door with its tidy English country air. This was the beginning, he thought, with the old butler and plump cook as witnesses. Six months from today, they’d all sign a document swearing that the terms of the will had been adhered to and that would be that. It was the time in between that concerned him.
“Rule number one,” Michael began without preamble. “We’re both in the east wing because it makes it easier for Charles and Sweeney. But—” he paused, hoping to emphasize his point “—both of us will, at all times, respect the other’s area.”
“By all means.” Pandora crossed her legs and sipped her tea.
“Again, because of the staff, it seems fair that we eat at the same time. Therefore, in the interest of survival, we’ll keep the conversations away from professional matters.”
Pandora smiled at him and nibbled on cake. “Oh yes, let’s do keep things personal.”
“You’re a nasty little package—”
“See, we’re off to a perfect start. Rule number two. Neither of us, no matter how bored or restless, will disturb the other during his or her set working hours. I generally work between ten and one, then again between three and six.”
“Rule number three. If one of us is entertaining, the other will make him or herself scarce.”
Pandora’s eyes narrowed, only for a moment. “Oh, and I so wanted to meet your dancer. Rule number four. The first floor is neutral ground and to be shared equally unless specific prior arrangements are made and agreed upon.” She tapped her finger against the arm of the chair. “If we both play fair, we should manage.”
“I don’t have any trouble playing fair. As I recall, you’re the one who cheats.”
Her voice became very cool, her tone very rounded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Canasta, poker, gin.”
“That’s absurd and you have absolutely no proof.” Rising, she helped herself to another cup of tea. “Besides, cards are entirely different.” Warmed by the fire, soothed by the tea, she smiled at him. As Michael recalled, that particular smile was lethal. And stunning. “Are you still holding a grudge over that five hundred I won from you?”
“I wouldn’t if you’d won it fairly.”
“I won it,” she countered. “That’s what counts. If I cheated and you didn’t catch me, then it follows that I cheated well enough for it to be legal.”
“You always had a crooked sense of logic.” He rose as well and came close. She had to admire the way he moved. It wasn’t quite a swagger because he didn’t put the effort into it. But it was very close. “If we play again, whatever we play, you won’t cheat me.”
Confident, she smiled at him. “Michael, we’ve known each other too long for you to intimidate me.” She reached a hand up to pat his cheek and found her wrist captured a second time. And a second time she saw and felt that same dangerous something she’d experienced upstairs.
There was no Uncle Jolley as a buffer between them now. Perhaps they’d both just begun to realize it. Whatever was between them that made them snarl and snap would have a long, cold winter to surface.
Perhaps neither one of them wanted to face it, but both were too stubborn to back down.
“Perhaps we’re just beginning to know each other,” Michael murmured.
She believed it. And didn’t like it. He wasn’t a posturing fool like Biff nor a harmless hulk like Hank. He might be a cousin by marriage only, but the blood between them had always run hot. There was violence in him. It showed sometimes in a look in his eyes, in the way he held himself. As though he wouldn’t ward off a blow but counter it. Pandora recognized it because there was violence in her, as well. Perhaps that was why she always felt compelled to shoot darts at him, just to see how many he could boomerang back at her.
They stood as they were a moment, gauging each other, reassessing. The wise thing to do was for each to acknowledge a hit and step aside. Pandora threw up her chin. Michael set for the volley. “We’ll go to the mat another time, Michael. At the moment, I’m a bit tired from the drive. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Rule number five,” he said without releasing her. “If one of us takes potshots at the other, they’ll damn well pay the consequences.” When he freed her arm, he went back for his cup. “See you at dinner, cousin.”
Pandora awoke just past dawn fully awake, rested and bursting with energy. Whether it had been the air in the mountains or the six hours of deep sleep, she was ready and eager to work. Breakfast could wait, she decided as she showered and dressed. She was going out to the garden shed, organizing her equipment and diving in.
The house was perfectly quiet and still dim as she made her way downstairs. The servants would sleep another hour or two, she thought as she stuck her head in the pantry and chose a muffin. As she recalled, Michael might sleep until noon.
They had made it through dinner without incident. Perhaps they’d been polite to each other because of Charles and Sweeney or perhaps because both of them had been too tired to snipe. Pandora wasn’t sure herself.
They’d dined under the cheerful lights of the big chandelier and had talked, when they’d talked, about the weather and the food.
By nine they’d gone their separate ways. Pandora to read until her eyes closed and Michael to work. Or so he’d said.
Outside the air was chill enough to cause Pandora’s skin to prickle. She hunched up the collar of her jacket and started across the lawn. It crunched underfoot with the early thin frost. She liked it—the absolute solitude, the lightness of the air, the incredible smell of mountain and river.
In Tibet she’d once come close to frostbite because she hadn’t been able to resist the snow and the swoop of rock. She didn’t find this slice of the Catskills any less fascinating. The winter was best, she’d always thought, when the snow skimmed the top of your boots and your voice came out in puffs of smoke.
Winter in the mountains was a time for the basics. Heat, food, work. There were times Pandora wanted only the basics. There were times in New York she’d argue for hours over unions, politics, civil rights because the fact was, she loved an argument. She wanted the stimulation of an opposing view over broad issues or niggling ones. She wanted the challenge, the heat and the exercise for her brain. But…
There were times she wanted nothing more than a quiet sunrise over frost-crisped ground and the promise of a warm drink by a hot fire. And there were times, though she’d rarely admit it even to herself, that she wanted a shoulder to lay her head against and a hand to hold. She’d been raised to see independence as a duty, not a choice. Her parents had the most balanced of relationships, equal to equal. Pandora saw them as something rare in a world where the scales tipped this way or that too often. At age eighteen, Pandora had decided she’d never settle for less than a full partnership. At age twenty, she decided marriage wasn’t for her. Instead she put all her passion, her energy and imagination into her work.
Straight-line dedication had paid off. She was successful, even prominent, and creatively she was fulfilled. It was more than many people ever achieved.
Now she pulled open the door of the utility shed. It was a big square building, as wide as the average barn, with hardwood floors and paneled walls. Uncle Jolley hadn’t believed in the primitive. Hitting the switch, she flooded the building with light.
As per her instructions, the crates and boxes she’d shipped had been stacked along one wall. The shelves where Uncle Jolley had kept his gardening tools during his brief, torrid gardening stage had been packed away. The plumbing was good, with a full-size stainless-steel sink and a small but more than adequate bath with shower enclosed in the rear. She counted five workbenches. The light and ventilation were excellent.
It wouldn’t take her long, Pandora figured, to turn the shed into an organized, productive workroom.
It took three hours.
Along one shelf were boxes of beads in various sizes—jet, amethyst, gold, polished wood, coral, ivory. She had trays of stones, precious and semiprecious, square cut, brilliants, teardrops and chips. In New York, they were kept in a safe. Here, she never considered it. She had gold, silver, bronze, copper. There were solid and hollow drills, hammers, tongs, pliers, nippers, files and clamps. One might have thought she did carpentry. Then there were scribes and drawplates, bottles of chemicals, and miles of string and fiber cord.
The money she’d invested in these materials had cost her every penny of an inheritance from her grandmother, and a good chunk of savings she’d earned as an apprentice. It had been worth it. Pandora picked up a file and tapped it against her palm. Well worth it.
She could forge gold and silver, cast alloys and string impossibly complex designs with the use of a few beads or shells. Metals could be worked into thin, threadlike strands or built into big bold chunks. Pandora could do as she chose, with tools that had hardly changed from those used by artists two centuries earlier.
It was and always had been, both the sense of continuity and the endless variety that appealed to her. She never made two identical pieces. That, to her, would have been manufacturing rather than creating. At times, her pieces were elegantly simple, classic in design. Those pieces sold well and allowed her a bit of artistic freedom. At other times, they were bold and brash and exaggerated. Mood guided Pandora, not trends. Rarely, very rarely, she would agree to create a piece along specified lines. If the lines, or the client, interested her.
She turned down a president because she’d found his ideas too pedestrian but had made a ring at a new father’s request because his idea had been unique. Pandora had been told that the new mother had never taken the braided gold links off. Three links, one for each of the triplets she’d given birth to.
At the moment, Pandora had just completed drafting the design for a three-tiered necklace commissioned to her by the husband of a popular singer. Emerald. That was her name and the only requirement given to Pandora. The man wanted lots of them. And he’d pay, Pandora mused, for the dozen she’d chosen just before leaving New York. They were square, three karats apiece and of the sharp, sharp green that emeralds are valued for.
This was, she knew, her big chance, professionally and, most importantly, artistically. If the necklace was a success, there’d not only be reviews for her scrapbook, but acceptance. She’d be freer to do more of what she wanted without compromise.
The trick would be to fashion the chain so that it held like steel and looked like a cobweb. The stones would hang from each tier as if they’d dripped there.
For the next two hours, she worked in gold.
Between the two heaters at each end of the shed and the flame from her tools, the air became sultry. Sweat rolled down under her sweater, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she barely noticed as the gold became pliable. Again and again, she drew the wire through the drawplate, smoothing out the kinks and subtly, slowly, changing the shape and size. When the wire looked like angel hair she began working it with her fingers, twisting and braiding until she matched the design in her head and on her drawing paper.
It would be simple—elegantly, richly simple. The emeralds would bring their own flash when she attached them.
Time passed. After careful, meticulous use of drawplate, flame and her own hands, the first thin, gold tier formed.
She’d just begun to stretch out the muscles in her back when the door of the shed opened and cool air poured in. Her face glowing with sweat and concentration, she glared at Michael.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Following orders.” He had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets for warmth, but hadn’t buttoned the front. Nor, she noticed, had he bothered to shave. “This place smells like an oven.”
“I’m working.” She lifted the hem of the big apron she wore and wiped at her brow. It was being interrupted that annoyed her, Pandora told herself. Not the fact that he’d walked in on her when she looked like a steelworker. “Remember rule number three?”
“Tell that to Sweeney.” Leaving the door ajar, he wandered in. “She said it was bad enough that you skipped breakfast, but you’re not getting away with missing lunch.” Curious, he poked his finger into a tray that held brilliant colored stones. “I have orders to bring you back.”
“I’m not ready.”
He picked up a tiny sapphire and held it to the light. “I had to stop her from tramping out here herself. If I go back alone, she’s going to come for you. Her arthritis is acting up again.”
Pandora swore under her breath. “Put that down,” she ordered, then yanked the apron off.
“Some of this stuff looks real,” he commented. Though he put the sapphire back, he picked up a round, winking diamond.
“Some of this stuff is real.” Pandora crouched to turn the first heater down.
The diamond was in his hand as he scowled down at her head. “Why in hell do you have it sitting out like candy? It should be locked up.”
